Of Swords and Scars
by MoonlitIvy
Summary: ON HIATUS. When Arthur unwittingly disrupts one of Merlin's experiments, both are flung forwards in time to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Will they manage to return? Merlin Reveal!fic
1. Prologue

**AN:/ This plot bunny just popped into my brain and wouldn't go away. Yes, even when I set my cat on it.**

**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter or Merlin. Don't sue me, because there's no way you'll get any decent money out of it, even if you magically won.**

**With that out of the way, enjoy the story! (HintHint-REVIEW!-HintHint)**

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**Prologue**

It had just been a perfectly ordinary day.

In retrospect, Merlin was to realise that it was, obviously, that wonderful type of ordinary day where everything inevitably goes to hell. He really shouldn't have expected anything different, judging by past experiences. After all, he'd had a lot of those types of days.

They weren't, in fact, attacked by any evil sorcerers, nor by any of the vicious magical beasts which always just happened to lurk right where they were going. They hadn't even been hunting. Not that Arthur wasn't itching to – the (relatively) new King hadn't been out of the castle since his half-sister invaded it.

That was precisely the problem.

The Southrons really had made a complete mess of the armoury, not to mention depleting the food supplies to almost half their original amount; many of the houses in the Lower Town had been completely burnt to the ground, and most of the horses and livestock had been killed or freed by fleeing enemies.

It really was just petty vengeance on their part, Merlin couldn't help but think. Most of the knights were fine, despite some being kept in a dungeon for a fortnight. They were having the time of their lives, hunting the stragglers of Morgana's forces. It was the servants who had the most work to do. Rearming the castle was bad enough, even without Arthur deciding that now would be the best moment possible for a wedding. Merlin could see why Arthur didn't want to wait; but it didn't stop his back aching something awful even as he stood tall to honour the new Queen.

Which is why, after a month's toil rebuilding Camelot, organising a royal wedding _and_ the not-insignificant task of cleaning the royal prat's chambers, Merlin thought he was perfectly justified in taking some time for himself on his day off.

As the morning sun gently illuminated the castellated towers of Camelot, a cool spring breeze rustled the straw-thatched roofs of the buildings in the Lower Town. Most of the work rebuilding the peasants' homes had been completed, or at least finished to the extent in which they were now inhabitable; nevertheless, those passing through could still see some of the burnt-out shacks left over from the invasion. The streets were bustling, filled with people; one could easily miss a single skinny figure wading through the stream of workers towards the citadel.

Many approached the young manservant as he darted through the city gates, and Merlin greeted every one cheerfully by name. He had made it a point upon arrival in the city to get to know everyone he came across, and remained on friendly terms with all manners of people. Even the guards, recently returned from hiding out in the Forest of Ascetir, gave him a friendly nod as he passed by. Merlin returned the nod; although he couldn't help but think that they might not be quite so friendly if they ever discovered how many times he had knocked them out.

This excursion, unlike the many times in which he had snuck out of Camelot, was for quite an innocent purpose; by Merlin's standards, at least. Under pretence of gathering herbs for Gaius, he had spent the morning searching the woods for certain herbs which he needed for his own studies. After a full month spending his every waking moment hard at work, he was looking forward to completing an experiment he had planned for months.

A slammed door and a shout of greeting were his only acknowledgement of his mentor, as Merlin sped past the physician towards his own room. Gaius had enough work to do, being the Court Physician. It was a miracle that he himself had recovered so well from his month of incarceration. He and Merlin had barely seen each other over the past four weeks; but Merlin knew better than to interrupt Gaius when he was tending to a patient.

Merlin sprang up the stairs to his room, closed the door behind him and leaned against it to catch his breath. After a moment's rest, he staggered over to the stool before his desk and collapsed onto it, dropping the herbs onto the desk. He reached down under it, and pulled out a wicker basket; out of which he retrieved a small leather pouch, which he regarded for a moment.

He hesitated slightly. This was not something which he had simply copied out of his Book. Merlin had prepared this entirely by himself; an experiment never attempted before. This was one thing he really did not want to mess up – especially considering its purpose.

Then he shook himself, and undid the ties on the pouch with his long, pale fingers. The contents spilled out onto the desk.

Two thin metal rings rolled to a stop, along with a tiny sand glass which he had procured from Gaius. The rings, one of silver, the other gold, he had bought with his savings from the town blacksmith. He gathered the items into his hands with great care, and placed them on the left side of the desk. He then stood, and took from one of the shelves above his desk a mortar and pestle. There was already a thin powder in the base, from the herbs which Merlin had previously prepared in the little free time he got. This, he poured into another bowl, and replaced with leaves of comfrey gathered that morning, which he ground into a thick paste; he whispered a small enchantment as he worked, to dry the paste into another powder.

After roughly half an hour's work, Merlin stopped. With aching hands, he poured this new powder in with the combined herb powders he had previously prepared, shaking the bowl slightly to mix them together. He pulled from another shelf a small bottle labelled _Essence of Bladderwrack _(Two gold pieces it had cost him!), along with a thin glass pipette out of a wooden box. Carefully, he dripped exactly three drops of liquid into the powder. He then took the bowl into his hands.

This was the most important part.

Quietly, yet powerfully, he began to chant softly.

"_Cume þoden. Hine on ylde eft gewunigen wilgesiþas, þonne wig cume…"_

His eyes were burning. The power was building; hot fire burning through his veins. The magic strained against his will – it wanted to act _now_. This was why he was the first; the sheer power _hurt_. He had to channel the magic into the powder…

"_Astyre! Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard __æ__!_

With a gasp, he released the flood; the power thundered through him; he was on fire! It was threatening to spill out into the air; with a monumental effort he contained it, controlled it; it flowed through his hands _into the bowl…_

The powder sparked, and then burned a brilliant white. The bowl glowed red-hot; he released it with a gasp, so it fell onto the desk (thankfully not breaking!); he sat there, watching as the powder cooled, his chest heaving.

He had done it.

With shaking hands, he tried to pick up the small sand glass and nearly dropped it. More carefully, he grasped it in his left hand (_Don't squeeze too hard or it'll break!..._). The top was already open; he'd seal it up afterwards. He painstakingly poured a small amount of the powder into the sand glass, careful not to spill any of it. The excess, he emptied into an unused glass vial, on which he drew a rune of protection with his finger. Best not to leave any of it lying around.

Then he gathered up the two metal rings.

The silver, he held in place around the sand glass; the gold, around the outside of the silver. He had been careful to ask the blacksmith for the golden ring to be slightly larger – to fail, due to such a small mistake, would be unthinkable… he carefully pictured the desired result in his mind, and spoke.

"_Ic geáne!"_

A small part on each end of the silver ring fused to the hourglass, leaving it free to spin; the gold ring fused in the same manner to the silver; a small blob of gold poked out at each end – a miniscule knob, with which to spin the device.

It was complete.

Merlin sat back, exhausted; nonetheless, he felt an enormous smile spread across his face. This was it – the culmination of a year's research, experimentation, failures and breakthroughs… and he had finally done it. He felt a giggle bubble up inside him; it broke through his lips and grew into a full-out laugh. Hah!

CRASH

The slamming of the door opening took him entirely by surprise – out of instinct, long habit and unspoken fears, he caused the book on the bed to fall shut and the sheets to cover it, and looked up.

Oh, of course. Of all the times King Prat could choose to barge in, it would be _now_.

"_Merlin!_ Of all the days you could choose to be your usual lazy self, it would be today! I had a meeting this morning; you were meant to wake me up! Or was that too difficult for you?"

"Arthur-"

"-I swear, sometimes I think you must have been dropped on your head at birth; you had to choose _today_ to forget-"

"Arthur-"

"-I mean, _really_, how difficult is it for you to remember _one simple thing_-"

"ARTHUR!"

Arthur stopped, a look of mingled fury and surprise on his face.

"_It's my day off!_"

Silence.

Arthur looked abashed. "Oh."

"Yep."

"I must have, er, forgotten, then-"

"Yep."

Now he was looking extremely embarrassed.

In all honesty, Merlin couldn't blame him. The servants might have had a lot more physical work to do; but Arthur, the King, the one in charge of everything, had been spending every waking moment fending off enquiries from the stores managers and armoury masters, and organising the offensive against some straggler Southrons who had been camped out in the Forest of Ascetir, and reassuring the people of Camelot, and preparing to marry Gwen, and everything else under the sun, practically. Really, Merlin was surprised he hadn't gone mad. It had been painful enough just watching him.

That didn't stop him from being annoyed at the lack of an apology.

"Is that all, then?" he enquired patiently.

"Er, well – are you busy?" Arthur asked, rather sheepishly.

Merlin looked at him blankly. What was he supposed to say? He could hardly admit to- don't panic. You're used to this, _remember?_

"Well, I was looking forward to spending a little time with Mary in the kitchens-"

"Alright, alright!" spoke up Arthur hurriedly. "I've got no interest in – well, _that_-"

Merlin could hardly stop himself from snorting. It was a good thing for him that Arthur paid so little attention to the names of kitchen staff. Flirting with the cook, Mary, would be like asking a Questing Beast to bite his head off.

"But seriously – I mean, what are you doing there? Those herbs, I mean-" Arthur started towards the table.

Merlin could barely stop his eyes from widening. "No, no, no, you don't want to look at that-" he darted up, trying to put himself between Arthur and the desk.

"Oh, come on, Merlin, I'm only curious. I mean, that gold sand glass thing-" Arthur's hand reached out.

"_No, Arthur!"_

His hand knocked the sand glass.

It started to spin.


	2. Chapter 1

**AN:/ Wow! I'm glad you guys seemed to like it! I can only hope this chapter is up to scratch :S**

**Fair warning though: I am currently bang smack in the middle of my exam period, so I'm having to fit this in around revision for a lot of other subjects. My grades take priority, so I can't guarantee regular updates – but I'll do my best.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Merlin.**

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**Chapter One**

The end of the school term in 1996 turned out to be eventful in several ways, little to anyone's surprise. The weather had become much hotter than usual recently, and, in the last few days left at Hogwarts, it became a common occurrence for the students to spend the now ample amounts of free time they had basking in the sunlight beside the shimmering lake, laughing and tossing spare food to the giant squid.

However, term had to end, as it always did. This caused a general feeling of relief amongst the student body; the past year had been nothing if not trying, and many were looking forwards to greeting their families at King's Cross Station. The reign of Delores Umbridge had finally ended, and few were sorry to see her go.

As such, there was an air of palpable joy on the final day, and much talk and chatter echoed through the Entrance Hall when the students passed through the grand doors out of the castle. It was much cooler inside, but the many slightly sunburnt faces gave evidence to the blazing sun waiting just beyond the doors.

Few noticed the tall, stern-faced witch stood at the bottom of the marble staircase, but a couple of passersby smiled tentatively at Professor McGonagall as she watched them go. Her expression still appeared to be slightly drawn, but her eyes were as sharp as ever, and she grasped the handle of her walking stick firmly as she stared down a boy who was guiltily shoving a Fanged Frisbee back into his bag.

Minerva McGonagall was still weakened slightly from the five Stunners to the chest she had taken, and her back protested slightly at the long period of standing; but she stood firm. It had long been her tradition to witness the students depart, and a few twinges weren't going to stop her. Never mind that most would be oblivious to her absence: Umbridge had lost, and Minerva was not going to allow her even the slightest hint of a victory.

Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, along with no small amount of relief. The mood of her students was strangely contagious.

However, there were always exceptions to the rule, and nowhere was this clearer than in the case of Harry Potter.

Her mood abruptly took a darker turn.

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Minerva had glimpsed the boy earlier that day, leaving the Great Hall. It was lucky she had done so at all, she thought – Harry had taken to eating early, and leaving before everyone else came down for breakfast. The only reason she had seen him was because she had been awoken at an ungodly hour by Peeves blowing cold air into her ear. The poltergeist had no compunction about annoying the teachers as much as the students; the only one he was wary of was Albus Dumbledore. In all honesty, Minerva had enjoyed the respite over the past few months as Peeves focused on Umbridge.

So, muttering various curses under her breath (she would have given herself detention had she been a student!), she decided that she had better make use of the extra time, as she was awake anyway.

Potter had looked up quickly as she entered through the doors to the Great Hall. There were dark circles under his eyes; he hadn't been sleeping. That was little surprise, she thought, grimacing internally. He had had a bad enough year as it was, and she had noticed his fatigue more than a few times in her class. Nightmares, no doubt.

It had been a long year for everyone, but for Harry, it had been hellish. Reviled by the press and public, constantly accused of lying about what had clearly been an extremely traumatic experience, even thought to be _insane_…

Add in the death of his godfather, and a prophecy proclaiming him to be the only one who can defeat the most powerful Dark Lord of their age, and she was frankly surprised he was coping so well. He had gone through far too much, far too young.

And it was taking its toll. She watched, concern rising in her chest, as he hastily gathered his books and thrust them into his worn grey bag. Reading, to take his mind off things? She would have thought that would be more Hermione Granger than Harry Potter. Yet another reminder of how little he let others know about him. Much unlike his showy father, Harry had to be one of the most private people she had ever met.

Ironic, that he was also one of the most famous people in the wizarding world.

* * *

She stood there a long time, long after the last students had departed. The enormous doors leading outside were still open, and a warm breeze brushed across her cheek. The scent of green life was in the air, she noticed. A sweet scent to muffle sour thoughts.

_He didn't deserve this._

She noted dimly that the sky outside seemed to have darkened.

Harry had lost his godfather. She had seen them together, seen them during the previous summer, in that dark pit which Sirius Black's family had called home. He always had hated it there.

She had rather liked the boy when he had been her student. An arrogant little toerag. But he could always make her laugh. Him… and James Potter.

_He didn't deserve this._

How many would that boy have to lose? How long before he finally got some peace? When would it _end?_

_He didn't deserve any of this._

A single tear fell down her cheek. She swiped it away impatiently.

She had a job to do.

Abruptly, Professor McGonagall turned and strode up the marble staircase towards Gryffindor Tower. She had to check that none of her lions had left their belongings behind. Her mouth twitched. She had little doubt that she might well find a certain escaped toad.

The castle, for once, appeared to be almost entirely empty. It had always been a strange feeling, remaining at Hogwarts after the students had left. Corridors usually bustling as teenagers tried (and often failed) to reach their classes on time were now barren of rushing footsteps and constant chatter; only the portraits of witches and wizards now long dead moved at all in the still silence. Her footsteps echoed sharply on the stone floor. There were no other noises, nothing to muffle the thud of her walking stick tapping the ground.

There was a certain something to the quiet. For months now, Minerva had had little true rest in the day time; Hogwarts was never silent then! This was usual, but this year it had been amplified even more. Those rebelling against the tyranny of the High-Inquisitor-turned-Headmistress had gone out of their way to cause as much chaos as possible, to make as much trouble as possible for the woman. The loud cracks of _Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs _were commonplace, an almost constant accompaniment to the general hubbub and the sound of Umbridge's shrieks.

Although she would never admit it, Minerva had rather enjoyed the widespread persecution of the persecutor. And she knew for a fact that many of her colleagues had felt the same way. This was possibly the only time during which she and Sybill Trelawney had agreed on something wholeheartedly.

Undoubtedly, the chaos had served its purpose well. Delores had been having a horrible time, what with the dungbombs and nifflers in her office. And the rest of the staff had been provided with some very high quality entertainment. However, Minerva had tired of the constant noise after a while (although it was most definitely worth putting up with to see the results), and the newfound peace and quiet inside the castle was very welcome.

It appeared that she was the only one out in the corridors. Unsurprising. Albus would have secreted himself away in his tower, Poppy in the Hospital Wing to check her supplies, Pomona in the greenhouses with her beloved plants. Filius would have retired to his chambers to listen to the radio, and Rolanda would be taking advantage of a completely empty Quidditch Pitch, no doubt. Aurora and Charity would most likely be visiting Septima in Classroom 7A, Bathsheda would be huddled over a translation of some sort, Hagrid would be out on the grounds, and Sybill… Sybill would have retreated into her nest, Minerva thought wryly.

She wasn't going to try and guess where Firenze was. She didn't know him that well, and centaurs were often anything but predictable.

One thing that she was certain of, however, was that there would be no company with Severus this summer. He had made it a point, as always, to leave immediately after the last coach of Slytherins had gone. Minerva had never found out where he lived. She knew that several of the others would be leaving too; Charity would want to be with her family, and Aurora would be travelling again over the summer.

Minerva, as she had for nearly eleven years, would be staying. After her Elphinstone had died, she could no longer bear to live in their cottage. Hogwarts truly was her home now.

She knew most of the portraits by name, and they greeted her cheerfully as she passed by. Minerva had grown to know some of them extremely well, and often had long discussions deep into the night with the portrait of Bridget Wenlock hung on the sixth floor corridor. Minerva was no expert at Arithmancy, but had a deep interest in the subject.

Bridget Wenlock had been a powerful witch, but the portrait had been painted during her later and thus more knowledgeable years. When Minerva had brought up the subject of Quidditch in one of their chats, Bridget had deplored her age, and that she couldn't be painted with a broomstick, despite the fact that she had never played; Quidditch hadn't been invented in her era.

Thus, it was a fair shock to Minerva to see Bridget racing along a corridor on the first floor, looking decidedly out of breath.

"Minerva! You should come quickly!" the dark haired witch panted, clutching at a stitch in her side.

"Bridget?" Minerva queried, "Whatever is the matter?"

"On the sixth floor – I don't… just come!" Bridget sounded desperate. "You have to come, now!"

Minerva was frozen in astonishment, but Bridget immediately turned tail and hurried off back where she had come from. After a brief period in which she collected herself, Minerva followed, still somewhat bemused.

The portrait was always two steps ahead, despite Minerva's comparatively younger age, and her confusion deepened even as they rapidly climbed the moving staircases. Bridget had come all of the considerable distance from the sixth floor to the first. Just to find her. The trek would have been extremely difficult for a woman of her age, even notwithstanding the speed at which she must have done it.

Whatever had happened, it had to be of the utmost importance.

Minerva lengthened her stride. Sharp pains throbbed through her back as she hobbled as quickly as she could with her walking stick - she really shouldn't be running, not after five Stunners – but she pushed the discomfort to the back of her mind. She couldn't slow down now. She would not let her own body beat her.

Despite their haste, it took them twenty minutes to reach the sixth floor. They were delayed briefly by the staircases, and Bridget had to pause more than once as Minerva waited for the stairs to change. Peeves waylaid Minerva on the third floor, and Bridget often had to fight her way through some of the more crowded portraits. It was with mixed feelings of relief and trepidation that they finally reached their destination, and stopped in shock.

It was as if a small bomb had exploded. Part of the ceiling had caved in, and the seventh floor above was visible through the hole created; thick chunks of stone had been gouged out of a part of the right wall, whilst the left appeared to have _melted_ slightly; a large crater had been blasted into the floor, and rubble lay strewn all around the scene. The dust still hung thick in the air; Minerva sneezed. She wiped her eyes, which were still watering from the painful needles in her spine.

Most of the portraits appeared to have fled the scene, or were at least hiding in the frames furthest from the place of the explosion. The frames nearest the blast were badly damaged. Some would be reparable; but there was more than one that they would be unable to fix. It appeared that some of the other portraits might have to share frames.

The dust was still clearing, and Minerva could barely make out some of the scene. She turned to the nearest portrait, where Bridget was stood beside a tall wizard with a short black beard and a moustache, who was looking rather worse for wear.

"What on earth- what _happened_ here?" she managed to choke out.

The wizard scowled darkly. "Don't ask_ me!_" he snapped, "Ask _them!"_

Bridget nodded faintly towards the blast site. Minerva turned.

The dust was still thick in the air, but it was gradually clearing. Minerva squinted, but still couldn't quite make out the details behind the brown-grey haze. There was an overpowering scent of smoke, and she couldn't help but cough. She winced as the sudden movement jarred her tender back, and drew out her wand from her heavy dark green robes.

She gently flicked her wrist, and whispered, "_Ventus_."

A gust of wind swept through the corridor, ruffling her robes and sweeping the curtains of dark haze away. The dust cloud cleared slowly, gradually. The dark shapes hidden by the fumes began to become more defined, to take shape. Minerva watched intently.

The mist faded away to reveal two dark shadowy figures, lying half-hidden amongst the scattered rock.

A fist clenched around her heart.

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**Hope you liked it. **

**Elphinstone Urquart was briefly married to Minerva McGonagall in the 1980s, but died from a Venomous Tentacula bite (according to Pottermore).**


	3. Chapter 2

**AN:/ I'm sorry, people – a month is a ridiculous amount of time for me to make you wait. Well, my exams finished at last on last Wednesday, so I've been working on this since then when I've had the time. I think I can safely say that this chapter has been exceptionally stubborn. So, to try and make up for the wait, this chapter is a fair bit longer than the others…**

**The response to this has been amazing – more than twice the amount of reviews that I got for the first chapter! Thank you, and please keep reviewing! I love it when people add my story to their alerts or favourites, but reviews can help me improve my writing. I want to hear what you think!**

**So, without further ado, here's Chapter Two!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Merlin. If you think I do, please get your head checked.**

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**Chapter Two**

Merlin woke up, and then immediately regretted it. The sharp stab of pain as he opened his eyes made it very clear that either:

1) He'd been stupid enough to let Gwaine take him to the tavern, or;

2) Something had gone terribly wrong.

Merlin liked to think that he had enough intelligence not to be currently having a killer hangover. This meant that he was in very deep trouble.

He chanced another glimpse of his surroundings, pleased to see that the dull throbbing in his skull had receded somewhat since his last attempt. The bright light entering his eyes made it very difficult to see. He blinked slowly against the onslaught, and was rewarded by a slight dimming in the blinding brightness as his eyes gradually became used to the light.

He was distantly surprised to see a blurry face swimming into view before him.

Firm hands gripped him by the shoulders, gently raising his upper body into a sitting position as he suppressed a wince at the aches in his muscles. Whatever had happened, his body certainly felt like it had taken a battering. Merlin was still vaguely confused as to what actually had happened, but he was sure that, whatever it was, it could wait. He was more concerned with current events, which he felt was perfectly reasonable. After all, it definitely was not Arthur who was presently helping him to sit up. Unless the thing that had gone very wrong had somehow turned Arthur into a middle-aged woman.

His helper was a rather severe looking lady, with black hair scraped back into a tight bun and a pointed, wide-brimmed, rather worn looking hat perched on her head. Her emerald robes seemed far too expensive for her to be a physician, despite the fact that they were covered in dust. Merlin had never seen her before in his life.

And that was saying something. He knew nearly everyone in Camelot, through one thing or another…

It took him a couple to seconds to realize that she was talking to him, but the words were unintelligible. This nearly sent him into an outright panic – had he hit his head harder than he'd thought? – until his common sense kicked in. He couldn't be hearing things; his blurry eyesight was quickly improving, and her lips were definitely matching her words. No. She was speaking in another language.

Although Merlin was quite the linguist himself (he had managed to learn the Old Tongue very quickly, along with many other various languages - very few of Gaius's books were actually in his native tongue) , this was not any language that he'd learnt, or even heard before. Annoying, but not impossible to deal with. It took only a quiet murmur and a slow blink to conceal the flash of gold, and the babble slowly began to form into words.

"…ful, there. Are you hurt?" she questioned. Her voice, although brisk, held an undertone of worry.

"F-Fine, I think…" Merlin shook his head, trying to clear it. Wherever he was, this was not his room. He might be messy, but he had never yet destroyed half of his wall. Even the guards would notice that. "Where am I?"

The lady didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on something lying next to him on the floor. Through the layers of dust and rubble, Merlin could just make out the straw-blond hair.

Oh, _damn_ it. Arthur had been in his room too.

He sat frozen for a second, eyes wide in horror, and then tried to launch himself towards his friend, but was swiftly pinioned by two strong arms. He almost didn't notice, fighting unconsciously to break free. He couldn't have killed Arthur! Not now he'd made it to being a King! They'd even got him past the point of marrying Gwen, which took long enough! He had _not_ just killed a man he had spent seven years protecting. No way.

And then he saw Arthur's chest rise and fall, and Merlin sagged in relief.

"Well, _really_!" his impromptu captor snarled, "You're battered enough without trying to throw yourself onto the floor. I would have thought that one crash landing would be enough for anyone!"

"Crash what?" he asked confusedly.

"I do have eyes. The damage around here suggests that there was quite a bang, if not a small bomb; and it is quite obvious that you two had something to do with it. I would be a fool to think it coincidence that two boys mysteriously appear at the exact same spot. Now," she straightened her silver glasses, which had been nearly falling off the end of her nose, "_What happened?_"

The lady's eyes were flashing dangerously. Merlin could only gape at her, until a groan from Arthur made them both spin round. He was stirring feebly on the floor, eyes blinking open and squinting at the ceiling, or lack of. There was a tightness in his face which told Merlin that Arthur was feeling just as battered as he himself had done only moments before. He looked simultaneously shocked and extremely confused, which gave him a somewhat constipated expression.

And suddenly Merlin knew exactly what was going to happen next.

King Arthur Pendragon sprang to his feet, legs braced, back straight, hand flying towards the place on his belt where he usually kept his sword… and grasped only thin air. He looked down in astonishment, tried to step back, promptly tripped over a conveniently placed bit of stone and was sent crashing back down to the ground.

Merlin swiftly stifled a snigger as the prat staggered back onto his feet. Arthur obviously had forgotten that he'd left Excalibur in his chambers. No doubt he'd thought that the sword would not be needed when he was only going to the physician's rooms – that, or he'd only just woken up, and been in such a rage over Merlin's perceived lateness that he had completely forgotten. It had become habit for the fighting men of Camelot to always carry a weapon of some kind since Morgana's attack, after half of them had been caught out during the feast of Beltane. Some of those present not of the Round Table had only been wearing flimsy dress swords.

Idiots.

"What on earth are you doing?" the stranger exclaimed, sounding rather exasperated, "Could you both just stay _still_?"

A myriad of expressions crossed Arthur's face. Merlin always had found him very easy to read. One thing was clear: Arthur did not like being told what to do, not the least by a woman who he had never met.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good thing that his translation spell affected the entire room…

"And who exactly are you?" Arthur demanded, looking peeved, "What is this place?"

Merlin noticed with no small amount of alarm that two spots of red had appeared ominously on the lady's cheeks. He quickly intervened, "Oh, shut up, Arthur. Can't you see she's trying to help?"

"Quiet, both of you!" the lady snapped, as Arthur opened his mouth indignantly, "No, I don't know what happened here. No, I have no idea just how you got here - here, of all places - _but_ I do know that someone here might just be able to explain all of this, and if you will allow me to take you to him, we all might just get some answers. So. Be. Quiet."

Arthur could only stare at her, his mouth open slightly in surprise, as the stranger climbed stiffly to her feet and strode off down the remains of what appeared to be a stone corridor.

Well. _That_ was abrupt.

Eyes wide, the two young men glanced at each other, an echo of bewilderment passing between them. Arthur's eyebrows were raised, his face contorted in a scowl of mixed disbelief and apprehension. Merlin merely shrugged. At this tentative sign of approval, Arthur recovered, standing up rather more carefully than the last time, and started after the woman.

The lady's commanding presence was impressive. Even Gaius had trouble getting the prat to listen sometimes.

Merlin sighed, and started to clamber to his feet, but suddenly hesitated, as though something had caught his eye. He glanced around jerkily. Nothing except the rock and rubble and the disappearing shadows of Arthur and the stranger… except…

Except for that _something_, for that itch he couldn't scratch, for the familiar tingling in the back of his head…

He paused when he noticed a glint of gold shining within the rubble, and nudged a bit of broken rock aside with his foot.

The sand glass glimmered innocently at him from the floor.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Albus, but there's nothing I can do."

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sighed heavily as he studied his colleague. There really had been little chance of it, but he had hoped, all the same. He had found himself doing that with an alarming frequency of late. It was a habit he had yet to break.

Darkness was rapidly falling outside of the castle, deep shadows shrouding the grounds and rendering them impossible to perceive from the window of the Headmaster's office. The room itself was dimly lit, the golden flickering glows of torchlight throwing the shadows of his visitor's face into deep contrast with the quavering highlights on his weathered skin. It was almost hopeless to attempt to read anything there, but the solid certainty was clear in blue eyes, along with regret.

He laced his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair, unheeding of the momentary aches reminiscent of a long life, and contemplated Filius Flitwick.

It was no secret to any who had walked through the halls of Hogwarts that the Charms Master had been one of the most successful duellists of his generation. Five times a winner of the International Duelling Championships! He could well have been one of the most successful Aurors of the century, had he felt so inclined; but his heart had always belonged to the study of Charms.

However, that was not to say that his years spent competing had not brought Filius into contact with many of his contemporaries in the circuits, and indeed, he had continued correspondence with many of his old friends during his foray into education. Amelia Bones, once a dab hand with an extensive array of hexes (Albus's left arm gave a sharp twinge as if in remembrance); now currently the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. Hippocrates Smethwyck, particularly proficient with Shield Charms; now the healer-in-charge of the 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward at St Mungo's.

Both unfortunately unavailable to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.

Albus coerced a resigned twist of a smile from his lips, gazing in reassurance at Filius, who was clearly troubled by his inability to provide assistance. "No matter. It was a long shot in any case. I can only thank you for trying."

Filius released a huff of frustration. "The others are all abroad, of course – gone to seek competition elsewhere. Well," he ran a hand through his white feathery hair, "It will keep them safe for now, at least. You-Know-Who will likely be restricting his attentions to the UK at the present time."

"Voldemort," Albus prompted gently.

"Yes, him. I wish I could be of more help, Albus- "

"You have done all you can. I will just have to look elsewhere."

Filius's mask of composure was shaky at best – he had never been the best at hiding his emotions, and dissatisfaction at his own efforts was peeking through. A Hatstall between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor or not, he had never liked to fail, and always threw his full force behind anything he attempted. A strange mix of Hufflepuff and Slytherin traits. Yet more credence to Albus's theory that the Sorting Hat's job was by no means simple. People were too complex to be categorised.

Nevertheless, it was clear to the both of them that the meeting was ended, and Filius's departure was announced by the gentle click of the door swinging shut. The many portraits lining the walls of the room, having previously been implementing their custom of feigning sleep, burst into chatter at once.

With a practiced ignorance of the sudden din, Albus pushed back his chair and slid open one of the drawers in his desk. The scrape of the wood was lost amongst the surrounding noise, but a quick pointed glance upwards caused the portraits to fall respectfully silent.

He shifted various sheets of parchment aside, stacking them temporarily beside his desk, until he uncovered a large leather-bound tome and pulled it out to be placed on his desk. Once all of the papers were replaced within the draw, Albus pushed it back into the desk and turned to the book, allowing it to fall open with a thud. He leafed through the many pages, absent-mindedly recognising various names, until he came to the right place.

Despite his many worries concerning the coming year, it gave Albus a certain grim satisfaction to scratch a thick black line through the name of Dolores Umbridge.

He straightened, his gaze flickering over the pages before him. And so – what to do now?

There was very little chance of acquiring any new blood into the ranks. The last year alone had proved that, when he had been forced to employ a Ministry stooge as a Professor. There had simply been no one else available to take the position, and Albus had certainly looked. Anyone short of another Death Eater would have been preferable to the toad-like woman.

The bald truth of the matter was that few sane people would be brave enough to take a job commonly thought to be cursed. They would have good reason. He eyed a long list of signatures embossed upon the worn parchment. Quirinus Quirrell – dead after being possessed by none other than Lord Voldemort. Gilderoy Lockhart –memory wiped after a backfired Memory Charm. Remus Lupin – resigned after being exposed as a werewolf. Alastor Moody – locked in his own trunk for a year.

Not precisely the best track record, and fears would be higher than ever after Riddle's return being made public. No. There would be no help from the general public. Albus lingered momentarily upon the possibility of one of the Order – no, they were needed where they were. Their jobs were vital. None of them could afford to isolate themselves from potentially vital information whilst teaching.

Albus rose from his chair and began to pace across the floor. So, no one from the public, and no one from the Order. He would not accept Ministry help again. That had been a disaster from start to finish. Education should not be caught up in politics.

His eyes fell on the cracked silver instruments resting on the recently repaired wooden table, some stirring feebly. And, just for a moment, he fancied he could hear a little whisper in his ear… _hypocrite._

The memory of pain-filled green eyes flashing accusingly.

Not now.

He cast a half-hopeful look towards the corner, but Fawkes' perch was empty, the phoenix currently exploring the grounds.

The Order and the public were out, as were the Ministry. That would only leave someone who was already teaching. Filius Flitwick passed across his train of thought, as did Minerva McGonagall, only to be immediately discounted. They would do it, he was sure; but unhappily. Their subjects, too, were vital. Pomona Sprout? Perhaps, but her speciality had never been with wands. That left only one other whom he could trust completely. Perhaps the only one who he could trust completely.

He would have to stick to the original plan. There was no other choice.

A frown marred the face of Albus Dumbledore as he sank back into his chair. Of the many signatures littered amongst the pages of the book before him, it was the one scrawled in a spidery hand which drew his attention.

Perhaps this was for the best. It gave him a very good excuse. Fishing out a piece of parchment from his cluttered desk and leaning forward, Albus began to pen a letter to Horace Slughorn.

The quiet scratches of the quill sounded within the office. Most of the portraits had fallen asleep, no longer a façade. The gentle whirring of the few remaining instruments were the only accompaniment, along with Albus's own almost soundless breathing. He kept his eyes fixed upon the letter.

The whirring grew almost imperceptibly faster. Albus raised his head. His eyebrows rose in slight surprise as he witnessed the steadily increasing speed of the silver flashes.

He had a visitor.

The letter was quickly covered by a sheet of runic translations, the quill placed on his desk, mindless of the residual ink staining the polished wood black; the enormous tome was dropped back into its draw. A sharp, quick, familiar knock rapped against the door.

"Enter!"

* * *

It was without a doubt one of the most fascinating rooms Merlin had ever seen.

The chambers were circular in shape, walls lined with dozens of sleeping portraits. Torch brackets cast a warm golden tone over the room, brightly reflected by a gleaming empty perch standing in the corner. The dim light glistened off a selection of very-interesting-looking silver objects which were piled atop a very spindly-looking table.

The room, however, was nothing compared to the man sat behind the desk.

Merlin's eyes were drawn to him as soon as he set foot over the threshold, the door silently closing behind him as he followed Arthur and the mysterious lady into the room. Was it really possible for people to get that old? Gaius was the only person Merlin knew who could possibly compare, and yet even he was almost certainly younger. Perhaps it was a trait only shared by people who read a lot of books, he reflected, eying the extensive bookshelves, Gaius and Geoffrey of Monmouth springing to mind; but then again, it was probably only that old people just had more time to collect reading material.

What both Gaius and Geoffrey lacked, however, was the air of contained power which this man carried. In physical appearance, he seemed quite harmless, even kindly. But Merlin could sense the magic around the man. He had met many powerful sorcerers in his time at Camelot, and one thing was instantly apparent – this man wore power like a cloak.

It was enough to put him on his guard. He'd been spending far too much time on constant alert for magical threats to relax just yet.

"Ah, Minerva," the bearded man welcomed the lady. "And I see you have brought guests?"

His eyes seemed to pierce the two of them down to the core. Arthur looked uncomfortable.

"I found them in the sixth floor corridor. The whole place is a mess, Albus! I would swear that a bomb had gone off, if Muggle technology worked in Hogwarts – half of the ceiling has been blown to bits!"

"Dear me." The old man raised his voice. "Kibby!"

A loud crack. Arthur yelled in shock. Merlin stumbled back.

A short creature had appeared out of nowhere right in front of them. Its appearance alone would have been startling, even without its manner of entrance. Its eyes were big and bulbous; its ears seemed too floppy to be of any practical use whatsoever. The strange creature was almost jigging from one foot to another as it bowed quickly to the man. "Master Dumblydore sir?"

The bearded man didn't even blink. "There is apparently quite the mess in the sixth floor corridor. Could you and your brethren take care of it for me?"

"Yes, Master Dumblydore sir! Right away, sir!" the creature squeaked in excitement, and disappeared instantly with another deafening crack. Merlin could only stand there, gaping.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Arthur seemed to have recovered from his temporary speechlessness, and was now glaring heatedly at the two strangers. "For crying out loud – swinging staircases? Moving, _talking_ pictures? And now a bloody bat-eared midget? When is anyone going to tell us what the hell is going on?"

"I'd quite like to know that as well," Merlin interjected.

"Oh, just shut up, _Mer_lin – and _you_! We were in your chambers! Your. Chambers. And now here – will someone just _explain_ -"

"_Perhaps_," the man spoke quite calmly, "If you allow me to speak, we may be able to gain some understanding of what has happened here."

His words held a kind of iron strength which cut Arthur off in mid-flow. For a moment, there was an embarrassed silence.

'Master Dumblydore' leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. "Thank you," he said, "And now, to business. How did you find yourselves at Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts?" Merlin said blankly. He looked sideways at Arthur, who appeared none the wiser. The woman frowned, and seemed to be about to speak, but stopped at a quelling look from the bearded man.

"Hmm." He removed his half-moon spectacles and began to polish them. "Could you tell me, perhaps,_ what_ happened to bring you here?"

Merlin's stomach dropped as Arthur shook his head.

It had been him, his magic, that had caused this. His own invention. They were stuck here, in a completely unknown area, because of him. The King had left his kingdom ungoverned, because of him. Camelot was unprotected, because of him.

But, well, there was simply no way of telling if the sand glass had done its job completely; they could have just been transported to a different place, couldn't they? It had only been an experiment, after all. Unverified. Not necessarily catastrophic. It could well have been worse. They could have been disintegrated, pulled apart and scattered to the four winds. Transportation spells were notorious for that, especially for those unpractised at the art. At least they were still alive.

This thought soothed him momentarily, until another struck him – even if they had only moved physically, where were they? They could be more than a month away from Camelot on foot, maybe even further. They could be in any of the five kingdoms. This place might not be in Albion at all.

Or… it had worked.

Panic took over as Merlin stared unseeingly at the wall in front of him. It couldn't have worked! It was an experiment! A first attempt! It had to have failed; there could be absolutely no chance at all of it succeeding!

It had to have failed. But it could have worked. And if it had…

There was no choice.

Merlin's head lifted. He felt strangely disconnected, as though not quite present. No one in the room appeared to have seen his inner struggle. Arthur was immersed in a fervent dispute with the lady, whilst the bearded man watched impassively. The portraits seemed to have woken at some point – all were unashamedly eavesdropping on the conversation, eyes fixed on the two opposing sides.

His foot moved forward almost without direction. The old man had apparently been immersed in the verbal battle, but he quickly registered the approaching footsteps, and his eyes locked with Merlin's. Blue on blue. There was something oddly captivating in the old man's gaze. Something almost familiar.

Merlin was aware of a sudden silence behind him; all arguments, all voices cut short. He did not turn around. He merely reached into the right-hand pocket of his tattered leather jacket, and pulled out a white-knuckled, clenched fist, lifted his arm, and let the sand glass clatter down onto the old man's ink-stained desk, uncracked, unbroken, still glowing a faint golden glow in the darkened room.

* * *

**What do you think?**

**One notice – I've created a poll for Harry's pairing in this fic, as I know people can get rather enthusiastic about that. To be honest, I have no particular preference, but if you do, then please vote! No slash, because if I try to write that then the characters will definitely end up OOC. If selecting other, please PM me with any preferences.**

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